"I saw him!" yelled Graham the Gasman excitedly. "I saw him, as clear as day!"

"Father Christmas?" asked Thelma Gusset (pronounced "Gussay"), the fragrant women's editor of the T&A?

"No, the bloke on the Broadway site! With a digger!"

"It truly is the season of miracles," said The Scribbler sagely, downing his pint of Old Muff and beaming. "Who's for another?"

It was the Boilermakers Arms' Christmas do and everyone was in high spirits. Another year had passed for The Scribbler and his cohorts and they had all, once again, survived the trials and tribulations that were thrown at them. With a fresh glass, The Scribbler proposed a toast to absent friends, chief among them Exeter Montgomery Cashew, the ebullient owner of the Boilermakers who had followed his dream to Hollywood after being bitten by the acting bug. The last anyone had heard he had taken a bit part in a low-budget remake of Casablanca, set in an old folks' home in Florida. Many minds boggled, but as long as he was happy.

Boris the Landlord and Daphne the venerable barmaid had done a fine job in making the pub all Christmassy. The place was awash with tinsel and fairy lights, and there was a handsome tree in the corner of the snug. By a strange co-incidence, the top six feet of the municipal tree outside the old Bank Street Post Office had gone missing a couple of days earlier, but no-one was in a mood to spoil the festivities by pointing the finger at Boris.

Wearing his moth-eaten Santa hat, Boris clanged the bell that hung above the bar.

"By my troth," thundered Barrington Thrope, the actor, in his stentorian tones. "Barkeep, do not think to tell me that the time for last orders is upon us already?"

"Not at all," said Boris. "I merely draw our attention to the fact that it is time for Secret Santa."

The previous week, the regulars at the Boilermakers had each drawn a name from a hat, that being the person they would buy a Christmas present for this year. Boris had organised someone to dress as Father Christmas and hand out the presents. As the sound of the bell faded, the door opened and a much-padded and heavily disguised Santa staggered in, a sack thrown over his back.

"Ho, ho, ho!" proclaimed the newcomer.

One by one, the pub regulars were given their brightly-wrapped packages. Santa handed out a long, slim package to The Scribbler, who sighed. Looks like Graham the Gasman had pulled his name out of the hat again. Trying not to look cheesed off, The Scribbler gave profuse thanks for the broken and mortar-encrusted spirit level that was beneath the wrapping paper.

At least Barrington Thrope looked pleased with the present The Scribbler had bought him, which was a brand new pair of steel toe-capped boots. The Scribbler winked at him and the resting actor winked back; only they knew that Thrope had recently terrorised the city as the fearsome spook Hobnail Malcolm after going through something of a late-life crisis.

"And now," said Boris, as everyone considered their presents, it's time for a little extra surprise."

"Free drinks?" said Doris "The Happy Medium" Thrope hopefully.

"No," boomed Santa, then threw off his beard and hood to reveal none other than Exeter Montgomery Cashew.

"EMC!" exclaimed the assembled congregation. "You're back!" said The Scribbler.

"Hollywood's all well and good," said EMC, "but it's not a patch on Bradford."

As the team congratulate their friend on his return, The Scribbler turns to you, the reader, and winks. "Merry Christmas everybody," he says. "And God bless us, every one."